


goodbye to the roses on your street

by nightsolong



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightsolong/pseuds/nightsolong
Summary: Therese knows there will never be a time in her life when she does not revel in the woman’s beauty, does not find herself blinded and in awe of her elegance. No matter what is in store for them, she will always feel something for Carol. There will be no clean slates for them. They will carry the past with them always.If they’re lucky, she thinks, it will push them forward.or: a deeper look into the final scenes of the film as carol grieves, therese finds herself, and ultimately they come back to each other.





	goodbye to the roses on your street

**Author's Note:**

> every few months I find myself drawn back to carol. it’s such a beautiful film.
> 
> I guess this is a slight AU and continuation of the final scene, starting a few weeks back and ending the night after they meet at the ritz. all lines in italics are direct quotes from the book that I wish had been incorporated into the film - so all rights to patricia highsmith.
> 
> title: santa monica dream by angus and julia stone.

Three weeks after she returns to New York, Therese finds a final letter from Carol.

 

It’s tucked into her assigned mailbox near the tenant’s office, thrown haphazardly in with all the rest of her mail (a few lingering bills, a postcard from Frankenburg’s thanking her for her short service in the toy department). At first, Therese doesn’t even notice it. Her mind is still in a daze, stuck somewhere between the groggy fantasy of her road trip with Carol and the harsh reality of life today.

 

She is reluctant to read it but ultimately musters up the courage. Deep down she knows she wants it desperately, wants to see the woman’s dainty cursive in front of her eyes and hear her rich voice echoing in her ears.

 

She could never deny Carol anything.

 

The paper is almost as wilted as Therese is, limp and weak as if the life of the words had been taken the moment they slipped from Carol’s hands and onto the page. She knows the feeling. It brings a twinge of despondency, an emotion that is not foreign to her, but at the same time she feels a pinprick of anger. This, at least, is new.

 

It is a farewell letter, even more so than the last one. One look at the length of the note and Therese knows she will never see the woman again. Any chance of something different, any hope of a second chance for the two of them, dissipates as she reads.

 

_I am not very happy today, my sweet. I am drinking my ryes and you would tell me they depress me, I know. But I wasn’t prepared for these days after those weeks with you. They were happy weeks - you knew it more than I did. Though all we have known is only a beginning._

 

Carol’s sadness is evident in her words - that much, at least, Therese is sure of. It seeps into her bones and twists around her own tendrils of unhappiness, morphing together into a sick, futile vine that chokes her with loss as she reads. Her fingers tremble, the paper threatening to fall from her grasp. She tightens her hold on the torturous letter and continues.

 

_I meant to try to tell you in this letter that you don’t even know the rest and perhaps you never will and are not supposed to - meaning destined to. We never fought, never came back knowing there was nothing else we wanted in heaven or hell but to be together. Did you ever care for me that much, I don’t know. But that is all part of it and all we have known is only a beginning. And it has been such a short time. For that reason it will have shorter roots in you._

 

There’s a surprising indifference that suddenly surfaces in Therese as she reads, like she isn’t really there, is merely a spectator watching someone else’s pain, someone else’s heartbreak. It’s comforting in a way she isn’t anticipating. Somehow she clings to it.

 

In a way, she thinks Carol might be right. Perhaps their time together _does_ have shorter roots in her. Carol was always wiser than her, even in ways she never wanted to admit. It’s a strange blessing.

 

It’s all she has left, now.

 

_You say you love me however I am and when I curse. I say I love you always, the person you are and the person you will become. I would say it in a court if it would mean anything to those people or possibly change anything, because those are not the words I am afraid of._

 

She feels a pinprick of loss at the words, but as she studies Carol’s fine handwriting, her sweeping letters and fine cursive, she feels part of herself slip away. The part of herself that belonged to Carol, she thinks.

 

Therese reads the rest of the letter numbly, her pain no longer connected to that of Carol’s, fixed together at the withering, worn ends. A tear slides down her cheek, but it does not sting the way so many of the others had, when she had silently sobbed in the car as Abby drove back East or fought back tears on her first day working at The Times. She is whole, now, or at least as much as she can be.

 

Time has changed her, but fortunately, it has been kind.

 

She finishes the letter in a few minutes, takes one last glance at the familiar handwriting. Then she throws it in the trash, along with the other pieces of unwanted mail.

 

(It’s refreshing.)

 

.

.

.

 

Therese buries herself in her work, partly because she lives for it and partly because it is the easiest thing to do. Her emotions are still volatile in many ways, longing for Carol yet resenting her in the same moment, and she knows routine is what will bring her out of that.

 

She takes pictures in the evening, makes memories in the places Carol cannot be. She learns to live for herself in a way she has never experienced, even before Carol and Richard and every other person in her life.

 

Dannie asks about her one day, mustering up the courage as they paint her apartment and add to the plethora of recent changes in her surroundings. She won’t live in this place forever, but for the time being, a new paint job strips away the last of her life before.

 

He doesn’t ask her if she loved Carol, but Therese knows the words are on the tip of his tongue. She doesn’t mind all that much. He is accepting in ways many of her friends aren’t, and she will always admire that about Dannie. Still, she doesn’t give much away.

 

His questions bring her back to another time, another place. She sees cozy motel rooms and miles of beautiful landscape, smells fresh rain in the air and hears the engine of Carol’s pale beige car.

 

But it is gone within an instant, the sights and senses of a different time falling away from her as quickly as they had arrived. Therese, sighs, answers him with surprising honesty. It is the last time he brings it up.

 

(It is the last time she thinks about it.)

 

.

.

.

 

They meet again.

 

It’s something like fate, Therese thinks, even as she resents the message Carol sends, asking (or begging, rather - she can’t tell) her to meet for tea one final time. They have spoken in nothing but notes for months now, and she has forgotten what Carol’s voice sounds like. The feeling is bittersweet.

 

Carol’s confession of love is not what shocks her; the feeling had been real enough in their weeks together, even if the woman had never said the words aloud. At the very least, Therese had loved her enough then to know what the emotion felt like.

 

What shocks her is Carol’s frail state, her feigned composure and trembling hands, telltale signs of the weariness that overcomes her now. Therese is so accustomed to seeing a fearless, unbreakable side of the woman - she thinks back to their trip, to Carol pointing a gun in the detective’s face and preparing to shoot without so much as a second thought - and the sight of her now is heartbreaking.

 

Therese had always thought _she_ would be the one to break, to fall apart after losing her. She never thought the tables would turn like this.

 

Their small talk doesn’t last, as much as she’s sure Carol wants it to. Therese can’t deny the fact that there’s comfort here in her presence, but the underlying anxiety of it all destroys any chance of her relaxing. Again Therese feels the indifference rising up in her. It terrifies her more than anything else.

 

Therese’s second shock comes when she says no to Carol, no to the woman she has loved for lifetimes and no to the prospect of spending her life with her, something that had seemed impossible only hours before. She doesn’t know why she does, when deep down the desire to be with her still burns brightly. She thinks it’s the freedom. She has so much of it now, and letting go of that is daunting.

 

(But truly being with Carol is even _more_ daunting.)

 

She wants to apologize, knows that the woman deserves at least that much, but before she can the moment is stolen away from her and Carol is gone, vanishing almost as quickly as she had arrived.

 

A pang of sadness strikes her as she watches Carol’s receding figure, graceful and stunning even in her dejection, leaving stardust in her wake. It occurs to her then that she has made a terrible mistake.

 

But it is too late to fix it, because Carol is gone now; she is off to better places, Therese thinks, is nothing more than a memory, a dream she thought she had last night. So she follows Jack obediently when he calls, falling back into her old patterns of submission and compliance for the first time since she returned from their trip. She ignores the hollow feeling in her belly, nipping at her and twisting her gut into a morbid, hopeless mess.

 

_That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all._

 

.

.

.

 

Hours pass. The feeling of regret she thought she had rid herself of weeks ago only worsens as time progresses.

 

When she works up the confidence to go back to Carol, to chase her the way she knew she always would, Therese is almost proud; she would never have possessed this strength before, would never have been strong enough to pursue something she wanted.

 

But then again, Carol has always been different for her. She brings out characteristics Therese never thought she possessed, wasn’t lucky enough to have.

 

(It’s a blessing.)

 

Carol waves her over and instantly calls for the waiter to accommodate their new guest. Her friends, men and women who Therese have never met but somehow feels acquainted with, speak to her politely and make small talk for much of the night. She listens respectfully, albeit impatiently. The distance between her and Carol now is nothing compared to what it once was, but still she is restless. Judging by the carefully-concealed anxiousness written all over Carol’s features, the other woman feels the same.

 

When dinner finally ends and they find themselves alone, Therese is surprised by her own nervousness. She had never felt this earlier at the Ritz. Perhaps it’s because then, she hadn’t allowed herself to entertain the possibility of a future with Carol.

 

“Shall we go to my apartment?” Carol asks slowly, stealing a glance over at Therese. “I would love to show you the place, if you’ve got the time.”

 

Therese is acutely aware of the hesitance in Carol’s voice, of the way she treads lightly around her, as if at any moment she could spook Therese and send her on her way.

 

“Why don’t we go back to mine? It’s closer.” She doesn’t quite know why she suggests it; Carol’s new residence is no doubt in better condition that Therese’s, and she is curious to see it. She supposes it’s because she wants to do this on her own turf, wants to feel once again the confidence that has made her so strong these past few weeks.

 

Carol agrees, and together, they set off.

 

They find a taxi easily enough. The streets are nothing more than a blur to Therese, passing around her in the same manner they had when she had left the Ritz, left Carol. Now, however, there is a sense of comfort that hadn’t graced her before. She no longer feels alone, at least not in the sense that she had before. How could she, when Carol sits only inches from her?  


She thinks back to one of their very first visits, when things had been so fresh and innocent, before their worlds had fallen apart.

 

_Child, child, where do you wander - all by yourself?_

 

She still doesn’t know. She thinks she never will.

 

.

.

.

 

They find themselves on the roof quickly enough.

 

It’s almost instinctual for Therese, to take the stairway up to the roof of her building; the cool air will bring her peace at a time when she needs it desperately, and anyway, it seems only fair to go back to the place where their relationship started, where they had agreed to set off West and begin whatever this had become. For the first time in weeks, Therese allows herself to think back to that moment. It’s bittersweet, but reassuring more than anything else.

 

The air is surprisingly cool for a spring evening. Carol props herself up against the side of the building, smokes a cigarette nonchalantly. If it weren’t for the slight frown of worry on her lips, Therese would mistake her expression for apathy. She’s seen the look on the woman many times before. This level of anxiety, though, is something else.

 

They sit in silence for several minutes, neither one gathering the courage to speak. She could, if she had to, but Therese finds herself more than content to just sit in Carol’s presence. There are so many things that have been left unsaid, and she is eager to get to them. But for this moment, silence is enough.

 

It has to be.

 

“You asked me if I hated you,” Therese says finally, thinking back to when they had met for tea. Carol, still leaning against the brick wall behind her, does nothing but blink, seemingly unmoved by the younger woman’s words. But her earlier behavior proved otherwise, Therese knows.

 

She looks up for a moment, gazing at the darkness above them, illuminated only by a few stars bright enough to shine over the hazardous city lights below. The last time they had been up on the roof, it had been snowing.

 

“I could never hate you, Carol.”

 

Therese directs her gaze toward the woman then, who finally glances up and meets her eyes. Even in the darkness Therese can make out her eyes, shining with an unreadable emotion yet beautiful nonetheless, more blue than gray. Some things never change, Therese thinks.

 

A sharp gust of wind blows over them. Therese instinctively pulls her jacket tighter against her shoulders, watching as Carol does the same. The night seems infinite, as if the perpetual darkness above them will linger forever, close enough to bask in but far enough to never be swallowed whole.

 

“Perhaps you don’t hate me, but that doesn’t change the fact that I broke you,” Carol says, not looking at her. “Nothing could.”

 

A flame of indignation sparks deep in Therese. “Why must you always see me as frail?”

 

“I never said that. But we both know that it’s true - I broke you.”

 

“You may have hurt me, but I had the strength to fix myself up. That, at least, wasn’t affected by your meddling,” Therese responds, immediately surprised by the anger rising in her voice.

 

When did she become this person, someone so bold and courageous that she could speak her mind even to the one she feared most? Because there is still fear there, fear of the unknown and of her feelings and of everything in between. When did she become this person, one who could speak so harshly to the person she loves most?

 

“I know.” Carol looks down, and again Therese is reminded of the weakness that has seemed so prevalent in Carol ever since their meeting earlier. The divorce had ruined her, made her weary and exhausted, seemingly bereft of the charm and boldness that Therese had first noticed about her.

 

If anyone is broken, it’s her. Therese thinks to say so, but she doesn’t.

 

Another bitter gust of wind blows over them. Therese shivers even in her thick coat, and suddenly she grows very wary of Carol and what they are doing, arguing with each other and darting around the question of their future together. “Well, it’s awfully late, and I have work in the morning. I suppose we should go inside and call it a night.”

 

If Carol is disappointed that their night is coming to an end, she doesn’t show it. “Alright.”

 

They walk inside wordlessly, climbing down the stairwell single file and avoiding each other’s gaze as they reach Therese’s apartment. Therese unlocks the door distractedly and steps inside, Carol trailing behind her. Vaguely she thinks of the first time Carol had come to her apartment, how she had brought her a gift and acted interested in her photographs, pretended that the place Therese was living in wasn’t a pigsty compared to the mansion Carol resided in.

 

The care and tenderness they had paid one another on that first visit seems so far away now. Therese wishes with everything inside her that it might come back.

 

As Therese wanders into the living room, Carol picks up her handbag from the table beside the door and begins fumbling through it, no doubt in search of a cigarette to calm her carefully-concealed nerves. This is it, Therese thinks, and suddenly she hates herself for calling an end to their conversation on the roof. Her time away from Carol has made her stubborn, even more so than she had been before, and _proud_ , too proud to admit that she still cares for the woman and always will.

 

“Well, that’s that.” Carol pulls her coat tighter around her slim shoulders and moves towards the door, faltering for a moment beside the sofa, betraying her sadness with a simple forlorn glance around the room. Again she thinks of Carol’s first visit. Somehow, it gives her courage.

 

“Goodbye, Therese,” Carol says, flashing her something like a wounded smile as she reaches for the doorknob.

 

Therese takes a step forward, standing alone in the center of her living room.

 

(She is tired of it. She is tired of standing alone.)

 

“Carol, I love you. I love you, too.”

 

It seems as if time freezes then, from the moment Carol’s hand falters on the doorknob to the moment she turns around and swiftly closes the distance between them. She moves toward Therese the way a storm might sweep over a city, silently in the dead of night, yet powerful and alarming all at once. She takes Therese in her arms, her hands slipping around her torso to pull their bodies together.

 

But it is Therese who leans up and kisses her, the way Carol had kissed her that first night. The circumstances are different, but somehow it is all the same.

 

When Carol pulls away, there are tears in her eyes. Standing here, in front of the tattered sofa that was here when she first moved in, with her arms wrapped tight around this weeping woman, it is hard to find words. There is so much she could say, yet Therese is speechless.

 

“Thank you,” Carol says finally, finding the words for her. “Thank you.”

 

“I love you.” It’s the only thing Therese can say.

 

“I love _you,_ dearest. Always.”

 

_Always._

 

There are no words after that, just the earnest love between them, the kisses Therese gives Carol as she pulls her into her room and onto the twin bed she is secretly still ashamed of. But it is enough for them, and as Carol brushes her fingers against Therese’s cheek, she has a feeling it always will be. They are enough for each other. Rich mink coats and huge stone mansions are a thing of Carol’s life before Therese, and while to an extent they will always be with her, they are not the things that define their love for each other.

 

Therese is enough for her, and at that moment, nothing else matters.

 

.

.

.

 

She wakes in the dead of night. Sounds of cars passing on the streets below filter in through the open window, the same way they have ever since she moved in, and a light breeze follows suit. It will be summer, soon. Even the night’s cool air carries the promise of sweltering heat.

 

Therese is reminded of her companion’s presence the moment she shifts in bed and feels a lock of pale, blondish hair brush against her cheek. She does not smile, because in many ways this is still surreal, but she feels a flutter of contentment deep in her chest nonetheless.

 

Carol moves too, then, rolls over on her side so she is facing Therese. The woman is still asleep, eyes shut peacefully in what Therese figures is the best sleep she’s had in weeks.

 

The sight brings her back to motel rooms in the West, to crowded twin beds and photographs she took using the early sunshine as light, but at the same time it is different. There are creases in the corners of Carol’s eyes, now, and the laugh lines on her forehead look more like wrinkles. The last few weeks have aged her - have aged them both.

 

But she is still beautiful. Therese knows there will never be a time in her life when she does not revel in the woman’s beauty, does not find herself blinded and in awe of her elegance. No matter what is in store for them, she will always feel something for Carol. There will be no clean slates for them. They will carry the past with them always.

 

If they’re lucky, she thinks, it will push them forward.

 

Therese does not move to wake Carol. The reverence of this moment, the peace, is something she could never bring herself to disrupt. At any rate, Carol needs the rest. She looks as if she hasn’t slept properly since they were last together.

 

She can faintly make out stars shining outside the window, their unrelenting light filtering in through the thin blinds. For a brief moment she moves to stand up, wanting to better inspect the luminous points and search out some constellations, the way she used to when she was younger. But Therese is reminded almost instantly of her current state of undress and lies back down as quickly as she gets up.

 

However, the slight movement is just enough to wake Carol. Therese watches as the older woman stirs slowly in bed, brushing a stray curl away from where it dangles against her forehead. A moment or so passes before bright blue eyes open and she wakes.

 

She takes in their surroundings, realization flooding her beautiful features as she recalls the night’s events, before turning back to Therese. She is surprised by the tranquil look on Carol’s face as they make eye contact; she’d seemed so agitated earlier, despite managing to conceal it fairly well.

 

“You’re still here.” Therese can’t tell if her lover means it as a question or a statement.

 

“Well, this is my apartment, Carol. This is the only thing I haven’t already given you.” A small smile graces Therese’s lips, and after a few moments, Carol’s expression mirrors her own. “Besides, where else could I have gone?”  


“ _My_ apartment. Madison Avenue, remember?”

 

Therese pauses before responding. “Oh, I didn’t know we were still discussing that.”

 

And just like that the smile in Carol’s eyes fades, the bright blue orbs dimming into something gray, something disappointed. Carol’s expressions have always been the most honest at times like these, when they are lying in bed and tucked away from the rest of the world. She does not respond to Therese’s comment. Instead she takes another glance around the room, her gaze suddenly far off, as if stuck in another time, another place.

 

“It’s your decision,” she says finally, still not looking at Therese. “I just thought that perhaps things had changed.”

 

Therese absentmindedly runs her hand down the comforter, balling up part of the fabric in her fist. “Things _have_ changed, Carol. That’s the whole point, is it not? I mean, you made it perfectly clear in your letter that things would never be the same as they were on the trip.”

 

A part of Carol’s letter surfaces in her mind then, clear as day, as if she hadn’t last read it weeks ago, hadn’t thrown it away the moment the words fixed themselves in her mind.

 

_If you are hurt now beyond what you think you can bear and if it makes you - either now or one day - hate me, then I shan’t be sorry. I may have been that one person you were fated to meet, as you say, and the only one, and you can put it all behind you. Yet if you don’t, for all this failure and the dismalness now, I know what you said that afternoon is right - it needn’t be like this._

 

Carol glances down at the mention of the letter. “I know. And I meant what I said then, and I mean it now. I just…” She pauses for a moment, and again Therese is shocked by the vulnerability in her gaze, the way Carol has seemingly broken down in front of her. It makes her proud to know that the woman is this comfortable in her presence, but at the same time it breaks her.

 

“You just what?” There is no impatience in Therese’s voice now, just exhaustion.

 

“I’ve lost so much in these past weeks. And I’m not saying that to make you feel pity for me,” Carol says, rushing with the disclaimer. “It’s just the truth. I lost Rindy, I lost my life before. I lost _you._ I just never knew things could happen so quickly.” Something like a smirk graces her lips then, but it is sad, the saddest thing Therese has ever witnessed. “The universe works in strange ways, doesn’t it?”

 

Therese looks up then, and when she does, her gaze locks with Carol’s. “You didn’t lose me.” It’s the most sincere thing she’s said in weeks.

 

She can barely make out the tears that well up in Carol’s eyes at the words. They are bright even in the darkness, moonlight reflecting off the wetness as it flows down Carol’s cheeks. Therese reaches out and brushes them away with the gentle pad of her thumb.

 

“Despite all that has happened,” Therese begins, surprised but somehow familiar with her own boldness, “I… I still have feelings for you, Carol. I didn’t want to say it then because I didn’t know how, not without giving up some part of me I had discovered while you were gone. But it was true then, and it’s true now.”

 

A genuine smile has always been rare with Carol, especially now, but when her eyes light up and the corners of her mouth turn upwards ever so slightly, Therese knows it is one of the most honest emotions to ever register on Carol’s beautiful features, features that have been emoting falsely for years now, to please party guests and relatives and people who mean far less to her than the woman here right now. Therese realizes then that she will spend the rest of her life trying to coax responses like these out of her, trying to make her as happy as she is at this moment.

 

“I love you,” Carol says simply, as if they have said that to one another a thousand times already.

 

Therese just smiles. “Don’t you know I love you?”

 

.

.

.

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> the carol fandom is such a beautiful place, full of so many kind people and loving hearts. this is for you guys. thank you for always giving me somewhere to come back to.


End file.
